Museums, Managers of Consciousness
The art world as a whole, and museums in particular, belong to what has aptly been called the 'consciousness industry'. More than twenty years ago, the German writer Hans Magnus Enzensberger gave us some insight into the nature of this industry in an article, which used that phrase as its title. Although he did not specifically elaborate on the art world, his article did refer to it in passing. It seems worthwhile here to extrapolate from and to expand upon Enzensberger’s thoughts for a discussion of the role museums and other art-exhibiting institutions play.
Like Enzensberger, I believe the use of the term 'industry' for the entire range of activities of those who are employed or working on a freelance basis in the art field has a salutary effect. With one stroke that term cuts through the romantic clouds that envelop the often misleading and mythical notions widely held about the production, distribution, and consumption of art. Artists, as much as galleries, museums, and journalists (not excluding art historians), hesitate to discuss the industrial aspect of their activities. An unequivocal acknowledgment might endanger the cherished romantic ideas with which most art world participants enter the field, and which still sustain them emotionally today. Supplanting the traditional bohemian image of the art world with that of a business operation could also negatively affect the marketability of its products and interfere with fundraising efforts. Those who, in fact, plan and execute industrial strategies—whether by inclination or need—tend to mystify art, conceal its industrial aspects and often fall for their own propaganda. Given the prevalent marketability of myths, it may sound almost sacrilegious to insist on using the term 'industry'.
On the other hand, a new breed has recently appeared on the industrial landscape: the arts managers. Trained by prestigious business schools, they are convinced that art can and should be managed like the production and marketing of other goods. They make no apologies and have few romantic hang-ups. They do not blush in assessing the receptivity and potential development of an audience for their product. As a natural part of their education, they are conversant with budgeting, investment, and price-setting strategies. They have studied organisational goals, managerial structures, and the peculiar social and political environment of their organisation. Even the intricacies of labor relations and the ways in which interpersonal issues might affect the organisation are part of their curriculum.
Of course, all these and other skills have been employed for decades by art-world denizens of the old school. Instead of enrolling in arts administration courses taught according to the Harvard Business School’s case method, they have learned their skills on the job. Following their instincts, they have often been more successful managers than the new graduates promise to be, since the latter are mainly taught by professors with little or no direct knowledge of the peculiarities of the art world. Traditionally, however, the old-timers are shy in admitting to themselves and others the industrial character of their activities and most still do not view themselves as managers. It is to be expected that the lack of delusions and aspirations among the new art administrators will have a noticeable impact on the state of the industry. Being trained primarily as technocrats, they are less likely to have an emotional attachment to the peculiar nature of the product they are promoting. And this attitude, in turn, will have an effect on the type of products we will soon begin to see.
My insistence on the term 'industry' is not motivated by sympathy for the new technocrats. As a matter of fact, I have serious reservations about their training, the mentality it fosters, and the consequences it will have. What the emergence of arts administration departments in business schools demonstrates, however, is the fact that in spite of the mystique surrounding the production and distribution of art, we are now—and indeed have been all along—dealing with social organisations that follow industrial modes of operation, ranging in size from the cottage industry to national and multinational conglomerates. Supervisory boards are becoming aware of this fact. Given current financial problems, they try to streamline their operations. Consequently, the present director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York has a management background, and the boards of trustees of other U.S. museums have or are planning to split the position of director into that of a business manager and an artistic director. The Metropolitan Museum in New York is one case where this split has already occurred. The debate often centers merely on which of the two executives should and will in fact have the last word.
Traditionally, the boards of trustees of U.S. museums are dominated by members who come from the world of business and high finance. The board is legally responsible for the institution and consequently the trustees are the ultimate authority. Thus the business mentality has always been conspicuously strong at the decision-making level of private museums in the United States. However, the state of affairs is not essentially different in public museums in other parts of the world. Whether the directors have an art historical background or not, they perform, in fact, the tasks of the chief executive officer of a business organisation. Like their peers in other industries, they prepare budgets and development plans and present them for approval to their respective public supervising bodies and funding agencies. The staging of an international exhibition such as a Biennale or a Documenta presents a major managerial challenge with repercussions not only for what is being managed, but also for the future career of the executive in charge.
Responding to a realistic appraisal of their lot, even artists are now acquiring managerial training in workshops funded by public agencies in the United States. Such sessions are usually well attended, as artists recognise that the managerial skills for running a small business could have a bearing on their own survival. Some of the more successful artists employ their own business managers. As for art dealers, it goes without saying that they are engaged in running businesses. The success of their enterprises and the future of the artists in their stables obviously depend a great deal on their managerial skills. They are assisted by paid advisors, accountants, lawyers, and public relations agents. In turn, collectors often do their collecting with the assistance of a paid staff.
At least in passing, I should mention that numerous other industries depend on the economic vitality of the art branch of the consciousness industry. Arts administrators do not exaggerate when they defend their claims for public support by pointing to the number of jobs that are affected not only in their own institutions, but also in communications and, particularly, in the hotel and restaurant industries. The Tut show at the Metropolitan Museum is estimated to have generated $111 million for the economy of New York City. In New York and possibly elsewhere, real estate speculators follow with great interest the move of artists into low-rent commercial and residential areas. From experience, they know that artists unwittingly open these areas for gentrification and lucrative development. New York’s Soho district is a striking example. Mayor Koch, always a friend to the realtors who stuff his campaign chest, tried recently to plant artists into particular streets on the Lower East Side to accomplish what is euphemistically called the 'rehabilitation' of a neighborhood, but what, in fact, means squeezing out an indigenous poor population in order to attract developers of high-rent housing. The Terminal Show was a brainchild of the city’s Public Development Corporation; it was meant to draw attention to the industrial potential of the former Brooklyn Army Terminal building. And the Museum of Modern Art, having erected a luxury apartment tower over its own building, is also now actively involved in real estate.
Elsewhere, city governments have recognised the importance of the art industry. The city of Hannover in West Germany, for example, sponsored several widely publicised art events in an attempt to improve its dull image. As large corporations point to the cultural life of their location in order to attract sophisticated personnel, so Hannover speculated that the outlay for art would be amortised many times by the attraction the city would gain for businesses seeking sites for relocation. It is well documented that Documenta is held in an out-of-the-way place like Kassel and given economic support by the city, state, and federal government because it was assumed that Kassel would be put on the map by an international art exhibition. It was hoped that the event would revitalise the economically depressed region close to the border to East Germany and prop up the local tourist industry.
Another German example of the way in which direct industrial benefits flow from investment in art may be seen in the activities of the collector Peter Ludwig. It is widely believed that the motive behind his buying a large chunk of government-sanctioned Soviet art and displaying it in 'his' museums was to open the Soviet market for his chocolate company. Ludwig may have risked his reputation as a connoisseur of art, but by buying into the Soviet consciousness industry he proved his taste for sweet deals. More recently, Ludwig recapitalised his company by selling a collection of medieval manuscripts to the J. Paul Getty Museum for an estimated price of $40 to $60 million. As a shrewd businessman, Ludwig used the money to establish a foundation that owns shares in his company. Thus the income from this capital remains untaxed and, in effect, the ordinary taxpayer winds up subsidising Ludwig’s power ambitions in the art world.
Aside from the reasons already mentioned, the discomfort in applying industrial nomenclature to works of art may also have to do with the fact that these products are not entirely physical in nature. Although transmitted in one material form or another, they are developed in and by consciousness and have meaning only for another consciousness. In addition, it is possible to argue over the extent to which the physical object determines the manner in which the receiver decodes it. Such interpretive work is in turn a product of consciousness, performed gratis by each viewer but potentially salable if undertaken by curators, historians, critics, appraisers, teachers, etc. The hesitancy to use industrial concepts and language can probably also be attributed to our lingering idealist tradition, which associates such work with the 'spirit', a term with religious overtones and one that indicates the avoidance of mundane considerations.
The tax authorities, however, have no compunction in assessing the income derived from the 'spiritual' activities. Conversely, the taxpayers so affected do not shy away from deducting relevant business expenses. They normally protest against tax rulings, which declare their work to be nothing but a hobby, or to put it in Kantian terms, the pursuit of 'disinterested pleasure'. Economists consider the consciousness industry as part of the ever-growing service sector and include it as a matter of course in the computation of the gross national product.
The product of the consciousness industry, however, is not only elusive because of its seemingly nonsecular nature and its aspects of intangibility. More disconcerting, perhaps, is the fact that we do not even totally command our individual consciousness. As Karl Marx observed in The German Ideology, consciousness is a social product. It is, in fact, not our private property, homegrown and a home to retire to. It is the result of a collective historical endeavor, embedded in and reflecting particular value systems, aspirations, and goals. And these do not by any means represent the interests of everybody. Nor are we dealing with a universally accepted body of knowledge or beliefs. Word has gotten around that material conditions and the ideological context in which an individual grows up and lives determines to a considerable extent his or her consciousness. As has been pointed out (and not only by Marxist social scientists and psychologists), consciousness is not a pure, independent, value-free entity, evolving according to internal, self-sufficient, and universal rules. It is contingent, an open system, responsible to the crosscurrents of the environment. It is, in fact, a battleground of conflicting interests. Correspondingly, the products of consciousness represent interests and interpretations of the world that are potentially at odds with each other. The products of the means of production, like those means themselves, are not neutral. As they were shaped by their respective environments and social relations, so do they in turn influence our view of the human condition.
Currently we are witnessing a great retreat to the private cocoon. We see a lot of noncommittal, sometimes cynical playing on naively perceived social forces, along with other forms of contemporary dandyism and updated versions of art for art’s sake. Some artists and promoters may reject any commitment and refuse to accept the notion that their work presents a point of view beyond itself or that it fosters certain attitudes; nevertheless, as soon as work enjoys larger exposure it inevitably participates in the public discourse, advances particular systems of belief, and has reverberations in the social arena. At that point, art works are no longer a private affair. The producer and the distributor must then weigh the impact.
But it is important to recognise that the codes employed by artists are often not as clear and unambiguous as those in other fields of communication. Controlled ambiguity may, in fact, be one of the characteristics of much Western art since the Renaissance. It is not uncommon that messages are received in a garbled, distorted form; they may even relay the opposite of what was intended (not to mention the kinds of creative confusion and muddle-headedness that can accompany the art work’s production). To compound these problems, there are the historical contingencies of the codes and the unavoidable biases of those who decipher them. With so many variables, there is ample room for exegesis and a livelihood is thus guaranteed for many workers in the consciousness industry.
Although the product under discussion appears to be quite slippery, it is by no means inconsequential, as cultural functionaries from Moscow to Washington make clear every day. It is recognised in both capitals that not only the mass media deserve monitoring, but also those activities, which are normally relegated to special sections at the back of newspapers. The New York Times calls its weekend section 'Arts and Leisure' and covers under this heading theater, dance, film, art, numismatics, gardening, and other ostensibly harmless activities. Other papers carry these items under equally innocuous titles, such as 'culture', 'entertainment', or 'lifestyle'. Why should governments, and for that matter corporations which are not themselves in the communications industry, pay attention to such seeming trivia? I think they do so for good reason. They have understood, sometimes better than the people who work in the leisure suits of culture, that the term 'culture' camouflages the social and political consequences resulting from the industrial distribution of consciousness.
The channeling of consciousness is pervasive not only under dictatorships, but also in liberal societies. To make such an assertion may sound outrageous because according to popular myth, liberal regimes do not behave this way. Such an assertion could also be misunderstood as an attempt to downplay the brutality with which mainstream conduct is enforced in totalitarian regimes, or as a claim that coercion of the same viciousness is practiced elsewhere as well. In nondictatorial societies, the induction into and the maintenance of a particular way of thinking and seeing must be performed with subtlety in order to succeed. Staying within the acceptable range of divergent views must be perceived as the natural thing to do.
Within the art world, museums and other institutions that stage exhibitions play an important role in the inculcation of opinions and attitudes. Indeed, they usually present themselves as educational organisations and consider education as one of their primary responsibilities. Naturally, museums work in the vineyards of consciousness. To state that obvious fact, however, is not an accusation of devious conduct. An institution’s intellectual and moral position becomes tenuous only if it claims to be free of ideological bias. And such an institution should be challenged if it refuses to acknowledge that it operates under constraints deriving from its sources of funding and from the authority to which it reports.
It is perhaps not surprising that many museums indignantly reject the notion that they provide a biased view of the works in their custody. Indeed, museums usually claim to subscribe to the canons of impartial scholarship. As honorable as such an endeavor is—and it is still a valid goal to strive for—it suffers from idealist delusions about the nonpartisan character of consciousness. A theoretical prop for this worthy but untenable position is the nineteenth-century doctrine of art for art’s sake. That doctrine has an avant-garde historical veneer and in its time did indeed perform a liberating role. Even today, in countries where artists are openly compelled to serve prescribed policies, it still has an emancipatory ring. The gospel of art for art’s sake isolates art and postulates its self-sufficiency, as if art had or followed rules, which are impervious to the social environment. Adherents of the doctrine believe that art does not and should not reflect the squabbles of the day. Obviously they are mistaken in their assumption that products of consciousness can be created in isolation. Their stance and what is crafted under its auspices have not only theoretical but also definite social implications. American formalism updated the doctrine and associated it with the political concepts of the 'free world' and individualism. Under Clement Greenberg’s tutelage, everything that made worldly references was simply excommunicated from art so as to shield the Grail of taste from contamination. What began as a liberating drive turned into its opposite. The doctrine now provides museums with an alibi for ignoring the ideological aspects of art works and the equally ideological implications of the way those works are presented to the public. Whether such neutralising is performed with deliberation or merely out of habit or lack of resources is irrelevant: practiced over many years it constitutes a powerful form of indoctrination.
Every museum is perforce a political institution, no matter whether it is privately run or maintained and supervised by governmental agencies. Those who hold the purse strings and have the authority over hiring and firing are, in effect, in charge of every element of the organisation, if they choose to use their powers. While the rule of the boards of trustees of museums in the United States is generally uncontested, the supervisory bodies of public institutions elsewhere have to contend much more with public opinion and the prevailing political climate. It follows that political considerations play a role in the appointment of museum directors. Once they are in office and have civil service status with tenure, such officials often enjoy more independence than their colleagues in the United States, who can be dismissed from one day to the next, as occurred with Bates Lowry and John Hightower at the Museum of Modern Art within a few years time. But it is advisable, of course, to be a political animal in both settings. Funding, as much as one’s prospect for promotion to more prestigious posts, depends on how well one can play the game.
Directors in private U.S. museums need to be attuned primarily to the frame of mind represented by the Wall Street Journal, the daily source of edification of the board members. They are affected less by who happens to be the occupant of the White House or the mayor’s office, although this is not totally irrelevant for the success of applications for public grants. In other countries the outcome of elections can have a direct bearing on museum policies. Agility in dealing with political parties, possibly even membership in a party, can be an asset. The arrival of Margaret Thatcher in Downing Street and of François Mitterrand at the Élysée noticeably affected the art institutions in their respective countries. Whether in private or in public museums, disregard of political realities, among them the political needs of the supervising bodies and the ideological complexion of their members, is a guarantee of managerial failure.
It is usually required that, at least to the public, institutions appear nonpartisan. This does not exclude the sub-rosa promotion of the interests of the ultimate boss. As in other walks of life, the consciousness industry also knows the hidden agenda, which is more likely to succeed if it is not perceived as such. It would be wrong, however, to assume that the objective and the mentality of every art executive are or should be at odds with those on whose support his organisation depends. There are natural and honorable allegiances as much as there are forced marriages and marriages of convenience. All players, though, usually see to it that the serene facade of the art temple is preserved.
During the past twenty years, the power relations between art institutions and their sources of funding have become more complex. Museums have to be maintained either by public agencies—the tradition in Europe—or through donations from private individuals and philanthropic organisations, as has been the pattern in the United States. When Congress established the National Endowment for the Arts in 1965, U.S. museums gained an additional source of funding. In accepting public grants, however, they became accountable—even if in practice only to a limited degree—to government agencies.
Some public museums in Europe went the road of mixed support, too, although in the opposite direction. Private donors came on board with attractive collections. As has been customary in U.S. museums, however, some of these donors demanded a part in policy making. One of the most spectacular recent examples has been the de facto takeover of museums (among others, museums in Cologne, Vienna, and Aachen) that received or believed they would receive gifts from the German collector Peter Ludwig. As is well known in the Rhineland, Count Panza di Biumo’s attempt to get his way in the new museum of Mönchengladbach, down the Rhine from Ludwig’s headquarters, was successfully rebuffed by the director, Johannes Cladders, who is both resolute and a good poker player in his own right. How far the Saatchis in London will get in dominating the Tate Gallery’s Patrons of New Art—and thereby the museum’s policies for contemporary art—is currently watched with the same fascination and nervousness as developments in the Kremlin. A recent, much-noticed instance of Saatchi influence was the Tate’s 1982 Schnabel show, which consisted almost entirely of works from the Saatchis’ collection. In addition to his position on the steering committee of the Tate’s Patrons of New Art, Charles Saatchi is also a trustee of the Whitechapel Gallery. Furthermore, the Saatchis’ advertising agency has just begun handling publicity for the Victoria & Albert Museum, the Royal Academy, the National Portrait Gallery, the Serpentine Gallery, and the British Crafts Council. Certainly the election victory of Mrs. Thatcher, in which the Saatchis played a part as the advertising agency of the Conservative Party, did not weaken their position (and may in turn have provided the Conservatives with a powerful agent within the hallowed hall of the Tate).
If such collectors seem to be acting primarily in their own self-interest and to be building pyramids to themselves when they attempt to impose their will on 'chosen' institutions, their moves are in fact less troublesome in the long run than the disconcerting arrival on the scene of corporate funding for the arts—even though the latter at first appears to be more innocuous. Starting on a large scale towards the end of the 1960s in the United States and expanding rapidly ever since, corporate funding has spread during the last five years to Britain and the Continent. Ambitious exhibition programs that could not be financed through traditional sources led museums to turn to corporations for support. The larger, more lavishly appointed these shows and their catalogues became, however, the more glamour the audiences began to expect. In an ever-advancing spiral the public was made to believe that only Hollywood-style extravaganzas were worth seeing and that only they could give an accurate sense of the world of art. The resulting box-office pressure made the museums still more dependent on corporate funding. Then came the recessions of the 1970s and 1980s. Many individual donors could no longer contribute at the accustomed rate, and inflation eroded the purchasing power of funds. To compound the financial problems, many governments, facing huge deficits—often due to sizable expansions of military budgets—cut their support for social services as well as their arts funding. Again museums felt they had no choice but to turn to corporations for a bailout. Following their own ideological inclinations and making them national policy, President Reagan and Mrs. Thatcher encouraged the so-called private sector to pick up the slack in financial support.
Why have business executives been receptive to the museums’ pleas for money? During the restive Sixties the more astute ones began to understand that corporate involvement in the arts is too important to be left to the chairman’s wife. Irrespective of their own love for or indifference towards art, they recognised that a company’s association with art could yield benefits far out of proportion to a specific financial investment. Not only could such a policy attract sophisticated personnel, but it also projected an image of the company as a good corporate citizen and advertised its products—all things which impress investors. Executives with a longer vision also saw that the association of their company (and, by implication, of business in general) with the high prestige of art was a subtle but effective means for lobbying in the corridors of government. It could open doors, facilitate passage of favorable legislation, and serve as a shield against scrutiny and criticism of corporate conduct.
Museums, of course, are not blind to the attractions for business of lobbying through art. For example, in a pamphlet with the telling title 'The Business Behind Art Knows the Art of Good Business', the Metropolitan Museum in New York woos prospective corporate sponsors by assuring them: 'Many public relations opportunities are available through the sponsorship of programs, special exhibitions and services. These can often provide a creative and cost-effective answer to a specific marketing objective, particularly where international, governmental or consumer relations may be a fundamental concern.'
A public relations executive of Mobil in New York aptly called the company’s art support a 'good will umbrella', and his colleague from Exxon referred to it as a "social lubricant." It is liberals in particular who need to be greased, because they are the most likely and sophisticated critics of corporations and they are often in positions of influence. They also happen to be more interested in culture than other groups on the political spectrum. Luke Rittner, who as outgoing director of the British Association of Business Sponsorship of the Arts should know, recently explained: 'A few years ago companies thought sponsoring the arts was charitable. Now they realise there is also another aspect; it is a tool they can use for corporate promotion in one form or another.' Rittner, obviously in tune with his prime minister, has been appointed the new secretary general on the British Arts Council.
Corporate public relations officers know that the greatest publicity benefits can be derived from high-visibility events, shows that draw crowds and are covered extensively by the popular media; these are shows that are based on and create myths—in short, blockbusters. As long as an institution is not squeamish about company involvement in press releases, posters, advertisements, and its exhibition catalogue, its grant proposal for such an extravaganza is likely to be examined with sympathy. Some companies are happy to underwrite publicity for the event (which usually includes the company logo) at a rate almost matching the funds they make available for the exhibition itself. Generally, such companies look for events that are 'exciting', a word that pops up in museum press releases and catalogue prefaces more often than any other.
Museum managers have learned, of course, what kinds of shows are likely to attract corporate funding. And they also know that they have to keep their institutions in the limelight. Most shows in large New York museums are now sponsored by corporations. Institutions in London will soon be catching up with them. The Whitney Museum has even gone one step further. It has established branches—almost literally a merger—on the premises of two companies. It is fair to assume that exhibition proposals that do not fulfill the necessary criteria for corporate sponsorship risk not being considered, and we never hear about them.
Certainly, shows that could promote critical awareness, present products of consciousness dialectically and in relation to the social world, or question relations of power have a slim chance of being approved—not only because they are unlikely to attract corporate funding, but also because they could sour relations with potential sponsors for other shows. Consequently, self-censorship is having a boom. Without exerting any direct pressure, corporations have effectively gained a veto in museums, even though their financial contribution often covers only a fraction of the costs of an exhibition. Depending on circumstances, these contributions are tax-deductible as a business expense or a charitable contribution.
Ordinary taxpayers are thus footing part of the bill. In effect, they are unwitting sponsors of private corporate policies, which, in many cases, are detrimental to their health and safety, the general welfare, and in conflict with their personal ethics.
Since the corporate blanket is so warm, glaring examples of direct interference rare, and the increasing dominance of the museums’ development offices hard to trace, the change of climate is hardly perceived, nor is it taken as a threat. To say that this change might have consequences beyond the confines of the institution and that it affects the type of art that is and will be produced therefore can sound like over-dramatisation. Through naiveté, need, or addiction to corporate financing, museums are now on the slippery road to becoming public relations agents for the interests of big business and its ideological allies. The adjustments that museums make in the selection and promotion of works for exhibition and in the way they present them create a climate that supports prevailing distributions of power and capital and persuades the populace that the status quo is the natural and best order of things. Rather than sponsoring intelligent, critical awareness, museums thus tend to foster appeasement.
Those engaged in collaboration with the public relations officers of companies rarely see themselves as promoters of acquiescence. On the contrary, they are usually convinced that their activities are in the best interests of art. Such a well-intentioned delusion can survive only as long as art is perceived as a mythical entity above mundane interests and ideological conflict. And it is, of course, this misunderstanding of the role that products of the consciousness industry play which constitutes the indispensable base for all corporate strategies of persuasion.
Whether museums contend with governments, power trips of individuals, or the corporate steamroller, they are in the business of molding and channeling consciousness. Even though they may not agree with the system of beliefs dominant at the time, their options not to subscribe to them and instead to promote an alternative consciousness are limited. The survival of the institution and personal careers are often at stake. But in nondictatorial societies, the means for the production of consciousness are not all in one hand. The sophistication required to promote a particular interpretation of the world is potentially also available to question that interpretation and to offer other versions. As the need to spend enormous sums for public relations and government propaganda indicates, things are not frozen. Political constellations shift and unincorporated zones exist in sufficient numbers to disturb the mainstream.
It was never easy for museums to preserve or regain a degree of maneuver- ability and intellectual integrity. It takes stealth, intelligence, determination—and some luck. But a democratic society demands nothing less than that.
This article was reprinted in: Art in America (New York) 72, no. 2 (February 1984), 9-17; Hans Haacke: Volume II, Works 1978—1983 (London: Tate Gallery; Eindhoven: Stedelijk Van Abbemuseum: 1984), pp. 105-109; Kristine Stiles and Peter Selz, eds., Theories and documents of contemporary art: a sourcebook of artists’ writings (Berkeley and Los Angeles: 1996), 874-881.
Excerpts have also been published in: Art Link vol. 3, no. 5 (November–December 1983): 7; Parachute 46 (Spring 1987): 84-88, ills. [Text in French 138-141]; Andsindustri: Det Kongelige Danske Kunstakademia (1988), with essay by Hans Jürgen Schanz and notes by Prof. Albert Mertz, et al., 10-25; Petersen, Lars Bent and Peter Holst Henckel, eds., 'Museer, Leder og Andsindustri' in Andinsindustri: Production, distribution og Konsumering (Copenhagen: Bidragyderne & Det Kongelige Danske Kunstakademie, Billedkunstkolerne De Studerendes Rad.); 'Museen: Manager des Bewusstseins', in Hans Haacke, Nach allen Regeln der Kunst (Berlin: Neue Gesellschaft für Bildende Kunst, 1984), pp. 92-96; Illustrierte Stadtzeitung Zitty 8, no. 19 (August 31–September 9 1984): 39, ill.; Hans Haacke: Unfinished Business (New York and Cambridge: The New Museum of Contemporary Art and MIT Press, 1986), pp. 60-72, ills.; Kravagna, Christian and Kunsthaus Bregenz, eds., The Museum as Arena (Cologne: Verlag der Buchhandlung Walther König: 2001), pp. 82-83; 138-148; Preziosi, Donald and Claire Farago, eds., Grasping the World: The Idea of the Museum (Hants, UK/Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Co.: 2003), pp. 400-412; Brumaria 3 (Madrid 2004): 67-79.
Reprinted here with permission by the author and translated to Chinese. This is a slightly altered version of an essay originally delivered as a lecture at the annual meeting of the Art Museum Association of Australia in Canberra, August 30, 1983. First published in Art Museums and Big Business, edited by Ian North (Kingston: Art Museums Association of Australia, 1984), pp. 33-40. © Hans Haacke, New York, 1983
This article was first published on Podium, M+ Stories.
Hans Haacke (born Cologne, 1936) is a visual artist and writer based in New York City. Well known for creating conceptually based artworks that critique social and political systems, Haacke began his career as an active member of the Zero group (active from 1957-1966) before arriving in America and eventually taking up a teaching position at The Cooper Union, NY, a post he held until 2002. Through his art and writings, Haacke has been an influential voice in exposing systems of power and examining the public nature of museums. His work has been exhibited in numerous international group exhibitions such as the Venice Biennale (1976, 1993, 2015), Documenta (1972, 1982, 1987, 1997) and in solo presentations at the Tate Gallery, London; The New Museum of Contemporary Art, New York; and the Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris.
Dr. Cladders, in 1982 and 1984 commissioner of the German pavilion of the Venice Biennale. 1985 since retired from the directorship of the museum in Mönchengladbach. Count Panza di Biumo sold a major portion of his collection to the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles. A major exhibition of the work of Julian Schnabel was held at the Whitechapel Gallery in the fall of 1986.
A major exhibition of the work of Julian Schnabel was held at the Whitechapel Gallery in the fall of 1986.
The vice-chairman of Saatchi & Saatchi, Michael Dobbs, was chief of staff of the Conservative Party chairman, Norman Tebbit during the 1980s. Since then the Saatchi brothers have had close relations to the leadership of the Party. They played an important role in all their campaigns.
Because this influence is originating with individuals, it may not survive them and may in the end have only minor structural consequences.
Carl Spielvogel, the head of one of the Saatchi & Saatchi subsidiaries in New York, at the time, was chairman of the Metropolitan Museums Business Committee. Charles Saatchi was vice-chairman of the museum’s International Business Committee.
In an op-ed page advertisement in The New York Times on October 10, 1985, Mobil explained, under the headline 'Art, for the sake of business', the rationale behind its involvement in the arts in these words: 'What's in it for us—or for your company? Improving—and ensuring—the business climate'. More extensive reasons are given by Mobil director and vice-president of public affairs. Herb Schmertz, in 'Affinity-of-Purpose Marketing: The Case of Masterpiece Theatre', from his book Good-bye to the Low Profile: The Art of Creative Confrontation (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1986).
The headquarters of Philip Morris in New York and the headquarters of the Champion International Corporation in Stamford, Connecticut.
Philippe de Montebello, director of the Metropolitan Museum, is quoted in Newsweek (25 November 1985): 'It’s an inherent, insidious, hidden form of censorship... But corporations aren’t censoring us—we’re censoring ourselves.'